


Festerverse Drabbles

by tysonrunningfox



Series: Festerverse [6]
Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: F/M, all of these were buried on tumblr and i wanted them in one place, angsty as hell, eret iii as a wee baby, festerverse, in an archive of sorts, it's fester, more fester, one stable place, this is not happy hiccstrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tysonrunningfox/pseuds/tysonrunningfox
Summary: Drabbles that take place before and after Fester, filling in other events in my Festerverse leading up to the beginning of Eret III.  Drabbles occuring during the story of Eret III will be posted in a separate collection.  Chronological Order.
Relationships: Eret/Astrid Hofferson, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III/Astrid Hofferson, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Festerverse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/832755
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Cold Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Fester.

Hiccup is happy to see Berk on the horizon, happy to see the familiar craggy peak, Goethi’s hut perched precariously with a flock of Terrors orbiting like little jewel toned flecks. He’s happy to see the cheery houses, the green peeking through the snow. Toothless warbles, his chest vibrating happily, and Hiccup’s heart gives a strange jolt at the blue gleam waiting for him at his preferred landing place. Stormfly squawks, hopping in a happy circle, her wings flapping erratically. Astrid laughs, and Hiccup doesn’t remember the last time he heard it, and maybe this won’t be like the last few times. Maybe she won’t be mad, maybe she’s sitting there waiting for _him_ instead of waiting to remind him of everything she thinks he should be doing. 

Toothless trembles as soon as he hits the ground, looking back at Hiccup with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, eager to play after a long flight, and Hiccup slides off onto travel bowed legs, staring at his toes for a moment too long. 

“You said you’d be back yesterday,” Astrid starts, but she’s not yelling. She doesn’t sound mad. There’s something husky to her voice, something that makes him think of late night whispered encounters, that makes him think she might be smiling. 

He looks up and she isn’t.

“I took a detour. There was something big going on straight south of the archipelago and I wanted to avoid it.” 

“I really wish you’d bring Sharpshot,” Astrid’s frown deepens. Stormfly squawks as she trots in an ungainly circle around Toothless, who’s rolling on his back and crushing all the gear. Hiccup grins at the pair of them. “Drago is still out there—”

“Why do you think I keep leaving?” 

She shrugs, “I know you _say_ you’re looking for him—”

“If you think I’m doing such a crappy job, why don’t you go do it?” Weeks of cold nights on hard rock catch up to him all at once and he’s suddenly exhausted. Exhausted and strung out, like just standing on Berkian soil stretches him a million painful ways at once. 

“Your mom was worried,” she crosses her arms, and a chill settles throughout his chest, because this is like last time and the time before that and the time before that. 

“Can I catch my breath before you start in with this?” 

“Start in with what?” She snaps, pacing back and forth on a small strip of bare soil, worn barren by what looks like footsteps. How long did she stand here, staring at the sky? He’s so tired he’s woozy, and even Toothless looks deflated, a lazy arm over Stormfly’s neck as he tries to slow her play. “With your responsibilities? Because it’s not me putting those on you, it’s—”

“Yeah,” he runs his hand through his hair. He wants a bath. He wants his bed. 

Last time, after their consummate welcome home fight, she followed him back home, and he can’t think of anything that he’d like less in the moment. He wants his blankets and an extra pillow and a week to himself. 

“Yeah,” it’s sharp, like a weapon, cutting, flaying him open and exposing the rawest edges of him to the cold wind scraping up the side of the cliff. “Yeah, it’s only…you know, the whole thordamned island—”

“Do you think I don’t know about the island?” He can’t seem to find all of his voice, settling for a harsh, bitter whisper. “Do you think I don’t know about the entire fucking island? Why do you think I keep leaving? Why do you think I’m spending all my free time trying to find Drago—”

“I think that you’d rather chase some maniac we haven’t heard from in a year than you would deal with the harvest. Or the fact that a rogue Nightmare burned down half the fishing fleet last week, and the fact that we need a trading partner soon, or we’re going to be breaking down weapons to make saddles. I think you think it’s heroic or—”

“Can you let me _breathe_?” He steps back and Toothless looks at him, scalding, confused eye contact. A look that says, ‘I didn’t used to have to watch her.’ 

He looks back at Astrid. Snarling. Disgusted. Paler than he remembers. Faded from the one he keeps deep in a secure corner of his mind for cold nights away. In the moment, with her eyes dark and squinted, her lip curled back from her teeth like a wild animal, he wonders how he ever found her beautiful. 

“I keep thinking you’re dead.” 

“I have Toothless with me,” it’s not a comfort to anyone and he knows it when he says it, but it’s compulsory. The ‘I’m fine’ in response to ‘how are you?’. 

“You think you’re impervious—”

“You think I’m someone to be lectured.” 

“I think,” she pauses, and he wishes she’d just get it over with. “I think you don’t listen to me. Not anymore. Not—not like you used to.” 

“You don’t talk to me like you used to,” he looks at her face and she looks like a stranger. He thinks of the people elsewhere, the places, the colors. The whole world bright and shiny and warm, and Astrid is a tapestry that’s been washed too many times and scrubbed too hard, pale and faded. 

She’s not apologetic. She’s not anything. He doesn’t recognize the blank expression on her face, doesn’t feel that stirring that made him want to dig deeper, past the hard exterior to find something else. If he saw her in a crowd, he wonders if he’d recognize her. 

“I’m going home, Astrid.”

“I’ll help you unpack—” She steps towards him and he holds his hands out towards her. “What—”

“I just want some time to myself.” 

“You’ve had weeks to yourself,” she shakes her head. “I’ll go tell the council they can wait, I guess.” 

“The council told me to take as much time as I needed,” he pats his leg, summoning an unwilling Toothless away from Stormfly, who looks after him. Antsy. Her wings quivering at her sides like she has too much energy, like she hasn’t been out enough. “It’s not the council that cares.” 

“I thought you might listen if I said the council,” she smiles, and it’s predatory and scared. She’s not Astrid, she’s a wounded wolf collecting itself for another attack. Maybe that’s what Astrid has always been, but he was young and naïve. “But you only listen when I’m yelling at you.” 

“I’ll find you later.” He shakes his head. 

He realizes he’s lying to her. Lying for a moment of peace, planning to land on the other end of the island next time. He’s already planning leaving again, and the thought of taking off to run away from something makes him feel fifteen and misunderstood. 

“I won’t hold you to it,” she unholsters her axe, her grip white knuckled and trembling. 

“Of course you will, that’s your specialty.” 


	2. Typical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Fester.

Typical. It’s the first time that anything to do with Astrid has felt typical. 

Another Freya’s day, another wedding, another feast, albeit one a bit smaller than the last. But this time the bride is Astrid, making cooly polite eye contact while he marries her to Eret, while they slide silver bands onto their fingers. 

She looks at him more than other brides do. He takes a moment to memorize her, the long golden hair combed neatly around her face. He never quite got around to picturing it and he’s sort of glad he got to see it. It’s like marrying Ruff and Fish, a favor for an old friend. 

A friend he doesn’t talk to anymore because of a damn moat of bad blood.

Maybe he’ll fix that now, maybe now that she’s married like she always wanted she’ll be happier and he can trust her in the council. It took a dragon trapper to tame Astrid Hofferson and that sits funny in his stomach for a moment, like he needs to prove himself. 

Hiccup thinks about skipping the feast after the ceremony, feeling oddly uninvited like he used to as a kid. Eret would have fit in as a kid on Berk, for sure. He would have been a better role model for Snotlout than Dagur, a burly ingénue. But Hiccup never would have had that time with Astrid if her true love was living on Berk the whole time, lopping off Nightmare heads with single mighty blows. 

He goes to the feast for the free flowing mead. 

Everyone is looking at him, strange worried looks, and he brushes them off with pleasant, diplomatic smiles. They think he’s jealous, they think this must hurt, like he still wants Astrid and he lost her. 

He watches them, the newlyweds. Like every other love match he’s married. Kissing too much, too passionately for public, lost in their own little world. Astrid is flushed red with the mead in her mug, laughing and fussing with the collar of Eret’s shirt. 

Two months ago, early summer morning, the skinny lines of her shoulders as she rolled out of his bed, getting dressed in the half-light of dawn. So much more frail than she used to be, a woman who had been through something that he didn’t understand, that he still doesn’t. He didn’t say anything, he let her leave, he was so sure she’d be back fighting with him later, questioning every damn word he said.

She doesn’t look frail now, shoulders strong and golden outside of the sleeves of her dress. Eret leans down and kisses one of them, oblivious to the crowd around them, to all the people in the hall. Astrid laughs and wraps her arms around her new husband’s neck and her eyes flick to Hiccup’s. Pointed. Irritated. Catching him for looking. 

He looks away, staring into his mug. 

How did she get here in two fucking months? He remembers her like it was yesterday, like he touched her an hour ago, felt her smooth skin under his fingertips, the pale white lines of her scars. He remembers how comfortable they used to be, she used to be the person he leaned on, the one he went to about everything. He can’t quite remember when that changed. 

He suddenly feels his age, what Spitelout always complains about, aching in his shoulders and chest like a vice clamped down around his ribs. Astrid is married, is married and he isn’t. Astrid is married to someone else, permanently. Something more steadfast than ten years of bonded history grew in two fucking months and now she’s married. 

What does she have with Eret? Nothing. Nothing compared to what she has with him. 

What she had with him.

What the Hel did she just do? He thinks back to the documents, the way that they felt like any other piece of parchment. That tiny loving bride price. Astrid wanted it, her family wanted it, to accept a bid like that. Astrid wanted to marry someone else and he fed into it, he let her. He helped her. 

Hiccup married Astrid to another man and he didn’t even protest. 

She shouldn’t be marrying anyone, how can she? She loves him. He remembers her in his bedroom before he cut her off with logic (Why the Hel did he cut her off?), her broken voiced ‘I love you.’ She loves him, she has to still love him. 

This is Astrid Hofferson, brave, loyal Astrid, she couldn’t let him go in two months, that’s impossible.

He looks at her again, willing her to see him. She’s tangled up with that imposter, hands in hands, her knees against his, subtly parted. Body language Hiccup has known since he was eighteen. Touch her. She wants that other, undeserving stranger to touch her and Hiccup can’t fucking breathe. 

She must feel him, his wild eyed stare, and she looks back at him, her fingers tangled in Eret’s hair as he kisses her neck. Her glare, that ‘don’t look at me’ glare, fades into something soft, almost empathetic. A wordless apology. 

A soft twitch of her lips. A friendly gesture that’s anything but, cutting through to his heart, like she wants to be friends. 

Like she is happier now that she’s married, like she can forget the bad blood between them. 

She looks back at Eret, back at her new husband, and Hiccup shatters, nearly running out of the hall. 


	3. Newlywed Astrid and Angry Hiccup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Fester.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Astrid says with a smile, newlywed blush glowing on her cheeks like it was the last time he saw her. But the blush isn’t for him, and the smile really isn’t either, it’s tight and closed and he can’t peer through the curtains behind her eyes. She’s prettier than he remembers. Different. If she hadn’t approached him, he might have pretended not to see her at all. 

“Uh, thanks.” He feels fourteen again. Fourteen and confused and star struck, and he sees Eret over her shoulder, talking to Fishlegs across the square. He thinks of when Eret used to be a friend, someone he trusted, when thinking of something between Eret and Astrid was impossible. 

Eret always seemed like _his_ —his project, his save, his confidante—but it was Astrid that showed up with him, Astrid that brought him into their fold. He should have seen it coming. He should have seen her shifting. 

He should have seen _her_. 

“I’m sure you’ve got lots of unpacking to do,” she straightens her dress. She looks clean like she never used to, like she’s never rolled around in a grove, practicing maneuvers she mastered years ago. He notices that her axe is missing, and she looks suddenly slight without its proud curve peeking over her shoulder. “So—”

“That’s it?” He steps towards her and it’s easy and hard all at once, a footfall downstream in a fast flowing creek where the threat of being swept away is paramount. “You’re glad I’m not dead? That’s all you have to say?” 

“What?” There she is, the Astrid he remembers, eyes blue fire beneath hard set brows. “Did you think I was going to go come fight with you? You’ve been gone six months. A lot can change in six months.” 

He feels the same as he did six months ago. Confused. Stupid. Like the entire world knows something he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before—Berk is a tiny island. Miniscule. Even if her new house is as far from his as it could be, they have dragons, they share the sky, they share the market. They share friends. He’s her _chief_. 

He can’t avoid her, and seeing her with Eret makes his heart feel like it’s choking. 

“Where’s your axe?” 

“At home,” she curls her lip. “I didn’t realize you needed me to chop anything.” 

“I don’t, I just—” He sighs, this is a mistake, why did he ever come home? He thinks about leaving again, about jumping on Toothless and going somewhere new, somewhere better. Somewhere bigger. The rocky beaches he used to explore as a child, the ones that seemed so distant from the village that he could pretend no one else had ever stepped on them, seem to constrict around him like a noose. His chest hurts. There’s no air down here. 

“I’m not doing this,” she shakes her head, “I thought maybe we could be _adults_ about this, finally, but…” her expression softens, briefly, and he remembers when that face would have made him want to hug her. He can’t remember what it felt like to hug her, not really, can’t remember the way her front felt against his, the strong set of her shoulders against his chest. He guesses he didn’t really do it all that often. “But I guess not. I’ll try again in a year, or something.” She brushes him off like splinters from a thoroughly targeted tree, slinging her words over her shoulder where they don’t fit quite like her axe always did. 

He wants to say something. He wants to pretend he’s never going to see her again, pretend that she could melt away into some hidden corner where he wouldn’t have to see the way she glances over her shoulder at Eret, the way she moves towards him. She glances back at Hiccup one more time, her expression blank, and he wishes he could fill it in like he used to. 

When they were younger, she was always what he needed her to be. She was supportive when he needed support, she was unyielding when he needed someone to push back against. She gave in when he needed to feel strong-willed. He wonders how much of that was her choice and how much of that was him seeing what he wanted to see. 

She rests her chin on Eret’s shoulder, Fishlegs stuttering in their conversation and sending Hiccup a nervous, panicked look. They’ll have to split up friends now, won’t they? And all their friends will put on loud, _fun_ voices and pretend that it isn’t awkward. 

Astrid’s hand weaves into Eret’s and Hiccup can’t help but hate the other man, even if it’s just for a second. Eret was somebody he knew. Now he’s just…Astrid’s _husband_. He wonders if Astrid still leaves her whet stone everywhere. Hiccup woke up once with it under his pillow, uncomfortable and slightly scared as to why she’d need such sharp knives in bed. He thinks of Eret, finding it in his boot, or stepping on it after a long day, and it’s too much. 

She was supposed to make a mess in his house, in his arms, in his _heart_. She wasn’t supposed to move on. She was supposed to _wait_. Wait for him to feel normal, wait for Berk to feel like home, wait for him to deal with…everything. She was never supposed to be something he had to deal with. 

It’s the first time he’s ever thought of waging war, but a larger chiefdom would really make avoiding her easier. 


	4. Telling Hiccup about the Pregnancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mid-Fester.

Hiccup forgets his own pregnant wife at home as soon as he sees Astrid ambling through the market, an unmistakably adorable hitch in her short steps. He hasn’t seen her since that night, not really. He got married and tried to forget, almost succeeding. He almost forgot that rug in his marriage bed, almost forgot her golden hair, her husky voice in his ear, almost replaced it with his vows. 

He wonders why no one told him. He wants it to be a mystery. 

Astrid pauses at Earwax’s market stand, looking over a basket of apples and turning sideways, the drum of her stomach suddenly so evident that it takes his breath away. 

He remembers the first time, when it was whispered around him, the issue skirted and revealed like it was nothing, like he shouldn’t care. He didn’t, not really, not on the surface. He was good at being gone, good at missing the milestones aside from his own. 

She looks up at him and stills for a moment of shocked eye contact before glaring at him, shaking her head and turning away. 

He’s catching up with her before he can think, ignoring the villagers’ stares as he falls into step beside her. It’s almost funny, how easy it is to keep up with her. 

The math is too easy, too obvious, that night scalding in his memories. 

“You’re pregnant.” 

“You’re not as stupid as you look,” she shifts the basket hanging over her shoulder and he can see from the determination on her brow that she’s trying to walk faster. “Then again, so is your _wife_.” 

“We aren’t talking about my wife—”

“Why not?” She sneers at him, “it’s all we should talk about. How is she? Are you two getting along? Any adventures to brag about?” 

“Astrid,” he grabs her arm and tugs her around to face him, hand immediately loosening. “Sorry—”

“Don’t touch me.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Yes, I’m pregnant,” she inflates, standing up straighter, chin jutted proudly further. “Why do you care?” 

“I can count.” He blanches as soon as he says it, the months running together in his head, the sleet and the early fall snow when he was home with his _wife_ when she must have been learning about this, suffering the morning sickness he knows all too well. 

“It’s not yours,” she grins, needlessly malicious. “You are…statistically irrelevant, as Fishlegs would say.” 

“You…you know something, don’t you?” His eyes widen and he stumbles a step backwards, both feet suddenly numb. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She scowls. “And I have to get home. E—My _husband_ is waiting for me. I’m sure you could say the same about your wife.” 

“You know something.” 

“Yeah, I know that I shouldn’t be talking to you.” She raises her hands like she’s going to shove him before thinking better of it and curling her lip. “Leave me alone.” 

“I—”

“Just _leave me alone_.” She seethes at him, an angry dragon in a woman’s body and it stuns him into silence long enough for her to stalk away, up the hill. Towards her house and her other life. 

Hiccup swallows hard and looks around at the whispering crowd, shoving his thoughts down, away. Another cute, little, strong-jawed baby. Another naming ceremony where he bites his tongue. 

He forces himself to accept the idea, swallowing the bitter pill. It’s too late, anyway. 


	5. Eret III is Born

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mid-Fester.

When Hiccup heard that Astrid needed the mid-wife, he couldn’t help but pace in that direction. He’d tell anyone who asked that it’s preparation, that he’d be there with his own wife in three months and it’d be good to see what he’s walking into. He tells himself the same lie, scratching Toothless’s head and watching the candles flicker through the windows of the Hofferson house. 

She knew something when he talked to her. 

The possibility tugs at his heart strings and he swallows hard as a growl, a powerful shuddering growl that could only start and end with Astrid vibrates through the door. Hiccup blanches, swearing under his breath. 

Eret is probably in there with her. He was so smug about that broken hand when Rolf was a baby, bandages in one hand and baby in another. The proudest father Hiccup has ever seen. Eret’s probably holding her hand and telling her that she’s strong, talking her through the pain. 

Another sound, more like a cry, and Hiccup wonders if it’s going bad. Astrid isn’t as young as she used to be, even if she’s just as strong. 

Women die in childbirth all the time, don’t they? It’s a common thing, it could be in Isabella’s future, or Astrid’s. Both. 

It could happen in the next hour, the next minute. That cry could have been her last, he could wake up on a changed Berk tomorrow. A Berk without Astrid. His throat spasms at the thought, the gut churning realization that Berk would plow on in Astrid’s absence, unchanged except for how much _worse_ it would all be. Everything would be so much more horrible. 

Another cry cuts him off. A different cry. High and shrill and piercing, and he waits for the celebration, he waits for Eret’s exaltation, he waits for someone to say something. Anything. 

Eret stomps out of the front door a moment later, scowling and stopping short when he spots Hiccup, still at the fringe of the path. 

“You must be proud of yourself, then.” The big man crosses his arms, hands covered in blood that Hiccup doesn’t want to think about. The baby cries again, insistent. Strong lungs. 

“Is—is she?” 

“She’s fine,” Eret shakes his head and seems to crumple, his age showing in the rounded slump of his shoulders. “She’s—not that you care. Not really. She’s just a play-thing to you and I—I’ve been so stupid, so bloody stupid.” 

Hiccup wants to defend himself. He has nothing to say, his eyes flicking towards the house again, ears oddly attuned to the shrieking baby, each cry stirring something in his chest. 

“How did you _know_?” Eret wipes blood on his pants, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and making him look weaker, younger. Hiccup remembers when he thought they could be friends, when they were friends for a while. 

Those battles where Eret had his back, those few years with Eret by his side, in his inner circle. 

“I just—”

“And for the record,” Eret throws his head up and looks towards the sky, towards the stars muted by thin swirling clouds, reflecting the turmoil below. “He—he looks more like Stoick than you.” 


	6. Hiccup and Toddler Eret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Fester. Eret III is 2-3.

The clouds lay thick above the docks, sagging with the weight of the rain that’s just barely starting to leak out of them. It’s the kind of rain that means winter isn’t far away, the kind that feels like icicle pricks on bare skin, that freezes into a crunchy but still clear frost by morning. It’s the kind of rain that means the fishing boats that haven’t made it back yet aren’t going to, instead mooring on any of the hospitable islands in the archipelago and waiting until first light. 

Hiccup tries not to smile as he sweeps his eyes over the ships that have returned for the third time. There are two Hofferson built ships, but not the main ship, not the ship with twin sails and the family name branded into the bow with irons he heated up himself. And it’s not like Hiccup can blame Eret for staying out late, of course not, what with four little mouths to feed back home, he needs to bring in all the fish he can get. 

But as chief, Hiccup should help in any way he can. There is no duty too small when it comes to helping his people, and he should be sure to tell Eret’s wife, the poor, anxious woman, that he won’t be making it home tonight. He wouldn’t want her to worry. 

He reaches his hand into his pocket and feels the little dragon he’s spent the last few days carving from soft, white stone he found on a neighboring island. Eret— _his_ Eret. The Eret that he hates to call Eret—will love it. He can’t hold back his smile anymore as he turns on his heel away from home and towards Astrid’s house, wishing he’d told Isabella that he wouldn’t be home for dinner. That particular concern leaves his head even more quickly than it enters and he starts rehearsing what he’s going to say to Astrid to get her to open the door. 

Sometimes, they get along fine. Sometimes she hands him little Eret with a pinched, grateful smile, her older children pulling her back inside and demanding something or other. That always makes Hiccup feel like a baby-sitter, but he was stupid enough to complain about it a few months ago, and he hasn’t had any alone time with Eret since. 

It’s also hard in the summer, with the longer days and his extended duties and the fact that Eret Sr. never misses a night away from home. 

He gets to Astrid’s door just as the rain starts in earnest, and that’s in his favor, really, because she’s Astrid, but she’s not cruel, and she’d never leave her chief out in the frigid rain. He knocks, smiling to himself as she lectures some child behind the door to be quiet before opening, her face falling when she sees him. 

Guess she’s still mad.

“I didn’t ask for a _baby-sitter_.”

“Not a babysitter, just a guy stuck out in the rain seeking shelter.” 

“Hmm, my barn is empty if you don’t mind dragon dung,” she closes the door halfway, looking back into the house. “Rolf, can you grab your brother?” 

“I’m busy, Mom.” 

“Ingrid—Eret, no, stay inside, it’s raining—”

A ginger head squeezes between her knees, pudgy hand on the doorframe, and big blue eyes light up when they see Hiccup. 

“I got new blocks, come see!” He squeezes fully between Astrid’s legs, seemingly unperturbed by her trying to pull him back as he jumps and grabs Hiccup’s hand. “Blue ones and green ones.” 

“It seems I’ve been invited,” Hiccup lets Eret tug him toward the door, trying to brush off Astrid’s murderous glare. 

“Honey, the chief is busy, he probably doesn’t have time to play blocks with you.” 

“Blue blocks,” Eret offers by way of explanation, like it changes the situation entirely. “’Scuse me, Mama.” 

Astrid steps aside and Hiccup hears her mumble something like ‘little shit, using manners on me’ as he passes by. 

Astrid’s house always feels like home in a way that his doesn’t. The fire in the fireplace warms the whole room and the hearth always holds a pot of food and a loaf of bread, keeping warm. It smells like furs and lye soap and there’s always a chaotic sort of clean feeling about it, like she walks around all day stashing toys out of the way and trying to get children to pick up after themselves. 

Or maybe Astrid herself feels like home. Maybe Astrid and Eret, who miraculously looks more like both of them every time Hiccup sees him, are his home. 

“Eret, Daddy’s going to be home soon, wouldn’t you rather show Daddy your blocks?” Astrid tries to distract Eret as he totters stubbornly forward, Hiccup trailing behind him. 

“I show him too!” 

“Actually, that’s why I’m here, he won’t be making it back tonight,” Hiccup lets himself be pulled down onto the rug, sitting cross-legged and accepting the blue stained block of wood that Eret places reverently into his hand. “The storm is getting worse.” 

“Oh Frigg,” Astrid rubs her temples. She looks tired in that way she never used to, back when she was up training before the sun every day. The dark circles under her eyes look like bruises, her braid is messy and there’s a smear of ash on her cheek. “Well, the last thing I need is you being here,” she hisses under her breath, and none of the kids notice, remarkably. 

Hiccup is a little too happy imagining that they’ve become immune to hissy, snipping fights, that Astrid and Eret aren’t as happy as they seem. 

“Build a tower,” Eret starts piling blocks into Hiccup’s hands and he stacks them absently, a simple pyramid in front of him. Eret uses his shoulder to stand, still toddler ungainly even as his limbs get longer and thinner—too thin, really, _Hiccup_ thin. “Tall like me!” 

“I’m distracting Eret,” Hiccup offers, placing a triangular block on the top of the tower, which is just a smidge taller than the top of Eret’s red head. 

“Don’t you have your own kid to get home to?” 

“I just thought you might have your hands full.” 

“Mom!” Ingrid calls from across the room, her arms crossed in a way that makes her look so much like Astrid at six that it physically hurts something deep in Hiccup’s chest. He hadn’t loved her then, he thought she was scary. “Rolf won’t let me color his book!” 

“Don’t color his book, it’s the kind of book for reading. You have paper, don’t you?” 

“His book is plain and ugly though,” she frowns, and suddenly looks like her father, all strong features and presence. 

“Yes, he likes it that way. Why don’t you play with Arvid? Can you help me out and do that?”

“He’s a _baby_ , Mom, he doesn’t understand my games.” 

“Then play one of his games,” Astrid tries for a command, but it splits open with a yawn and she glares at Hiccup, like the moment of weakness was absolutely his fault. 

“I’ll play with Arvid,” Hiccup shows the little black haired boy—an exact likeness of Eret if he’s ever seen one—one of the blocks that didn’t make it into the tower. 

“What are you getting at, Chief?” She spits the title, hurling it at him like a knife, and he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t let her be so tired. Except he did, for years, and now she’s trying so hard to prevent him from making it up to her. 

He wonders what would happen if she forgave him, really forgave him, if this whole pretense of being with someone else would fall apart. 

“Aurelia keeps us up half the night half the time, I can’t imagine handling four kids all by myself. Maybe I could help you out, just until they get to bed or the rain stops, whatever comes first.” 

“I didn’t ask for a baby-sitter.” 

“Chiefly duty,” Hiccup taps his head, “you didn’t even have to ask. I could feel the plight of my people and came running.” 

Something flickers across her expression, something warmer than the icy glare she greeted him with. He remembers the look from years ago, when he remembered her birthday or sharpened her axe without him asking to. The first time he did, she asked him what he was getting at, like no one had ever done anything for her without expecting something in return. 

It broke his heart then and it does now. What kind of husband Eret must be, leaving her alone with this. Hiccup would never do that to her. He’d never leave his wife scrambling with the kids. He’d be present for her, he wants her to know that if she gave him another chance it would be different. Better. Perfect.

“Can you put him and Arvid to bed? I promised Ingrid I’d read with her and Fishlegs will give me his disappointed Dad stare if that book comes back to the library with doodles on it.” 

“Yeah, I can put them to bed. Now?” 

She nods gratefully, whisking off towards the kitchen without a glance over her shoulder. 

It doesn’t go as smoothly as Hiccup wishes it would. Arvid kicks him in the shin when he suggests bedtime, and Eret starts crying because his tower gets knocked down and they want to hear a bedtime story ‘Daddy’ always tells about a mean king and a warrior princess. But they relent to Hiccup’s story about a dragon kingdom, snuggling against him on either side and falling asleep somewhere before the end.

He sits there a little too long, brushing his fingers over the top of Eret’s head, following whorls of hair and untidy shocks of bedhead. His nose is freckled but his forehead is pale where his hair guards it from the sun, and his ears stick out adorably. 

When Hiccup wiggles out from between them, he finds Astrid alone with Rolf, sitting next to him at the table and helping him through some handwritten notes in the margins of his books, Fishlegs’s uneven scrawl recognizable even from across the room. Rolf glares at Hiccup as soon as he enters, standing all at once and tucking his book under his arm. 

He’s tall for nine, tall and broad in a way Hiccup never was, his hair a dusty blonde, still cool-toned even in the firelight. 

“I’ll head to bed.” 

“I can tuck you in.” 

“I was going to read a while longer,” he brushes Astrid off, stalking down the hall to the room where Arvid and Eret are already asleep, presumably to the empty, perfectly made mattress on the other side of the room. 

The door shuts behind him and the room is suddenly tense, Astrid looking past him, her shoulders slumping forward by the second. She looks like she could fall asleep right where she’s sitting and the compulsion to pull her against his chest and feel her curl up around him is suddenly overwhelming. 

“Thank you.” She says it in her crispest voice, her unnaturally polite tone that she used for the first time around him when he introduced her to his father as his girlfriend. Her voice she uses when she’s pretending to be someone else. 

It sounds more comfortable than it used to, like she uses it more, and he can’t help but be encouraged by the idea that she’s pretending to be someone else around her husband. 

“It’s no problem.” 

“The rain is worse.” 

“I’m not in a hurry.”

He stands in the middle of the room for a moment, wondering if he should clean up Eret’s mess, if he should just cross the room and _kiss_ her. That’s what he’d do if he lived here. As soon as the kids were asleep he’d kiss her without fail, immediately, for as long as he could get away with. No matter how tired they were. 

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She laughs to herself, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You’re never in a hurry.” 

“I hurried on the way over here,” He crosses to the table, stands by her shoulder, his hand hovering right above it. He knows how she feels under his palm. Steady. Rooted. She smells like lye soap and herbs and _Astrid_. Like the extra shirt she left at his hut when they were eighteen and awkward. He kept that shirt with all of his clothes, let its scent rub off onto everything so he could take her wherever he went, whether she was with him or not. 

“Outrunning the rain.”

“No,” he takes the little dragon out of his pocket, “I carved this for Eret. I can’t believe I forgot to give it to him.” 

She plucks the stone from his hand, being careful not to touch their fingers together and letting him know that it would phase her too. (Gods, he wants to touch her. He wants to show her what it could be like if he could touch her.)

“It’s too small, he could choke on it.” 

“He wouldn’t try to eat it.”

“He’s two, he tries to eat a lot of things.” She tries to hand it back to him and he wraps his fingers around hers, catching the carving between them. It feels like Eret, a stony knot warming within their touch, a pebble in his shoe that he’ll miss as soon as he stops to take it out. “Hiccup,” she sighs his name like a promise, looking away, trying to tug her hand from his grip. He holds more tightly to her fingers, stepping forward and placing his hand on the shoulder that feels so familiar under his touch. 

“It’s not too late, he’s still young, you know, he could get used to me, we could still—”

“We could still what? Make more mistakes, worse mistakes.” She tries to shrug off his hand, and it’s either half-hearted or exhausted and he leans in to kiss her. 

She shoves him off before his lips make contact, a shadow of her old intimidating glory in the contact. “Get out of my house.” 

“Astrid, it’s not too late.”

“Too late for what?” She sneers, stepping towards him, a she-bear protecting her den. “Leave.”

“Astrid—”

“Chief,” she reestablishes formality with one cutting syllable. “Get out.” 


	7. He Can Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Fester. Eret III is about 5.

Hiccup isn’t paying enough attention to the crowd around him, he’s not quite there in the first place, stuck on the house with the hollow, ringing silence and his five year old daughter who doesn’t seem to like him very much. It should be the ideal place to work, what with the way that everyone but Toothless avoids him, but the dragon’s pitying stare was starting to be a little much. 

He sighs and tries to refocus on the document in front of him, the treaty with the Meatheads about dragons and trade and…something. Three feet of something on parchment in neat runes that are spinning in front of his eyes. He presses the back of tired hands to his face and sighs. Maybe this isn’t happening tonight. Maybe he should just go home and go to bed. 

He’s just about to get up when something small and fast runs into his side. 

“Sorry!” A chirpy voice, too familiar—Thor, it’s familiar—rings from the ground beside him and he looks to see little Eret, sprawled on his back, rubbing the top of his ginger head and looking up with wide, paralyzing, blue eyes. 

“Are you ok?” Hiccup asks, absolutely unable to look away as the kid sits up, bouncing his shoulders and shaking his head back and forth. 

“I’m fine,” he grunts and jumps to his feet, so positively _alive_ when he leans on the edge of the table with a little hand at shoulder height, looking around the room. “I’m so—oh. You’re the chief.” 

The kid’s eyes widen and his freckled nose twitches as he takes half a slow step backwards, looking around the room again. 

“I am.” 

“I’m…my parents say I’m not supposed to talk to you.” He frowns, all his mother’s concentration painfully present in his reddish eyebrows. 

“I bet your parents also tell you not to run inside.” 

The boy nods, “because I’m not very graceful and I might run into someone or something,” he recites like he’s heard it a million times, stuffing a little hand in his pocket. “Like you.” 

“I won’t tell anyone.” Hiccup looks around the room, making fleeting eye contact with too many villagers. 

He can feel awkward meetings hanging over his head, the sad little glances when Astrid or Eret Sr. walk by. He looks back at the kid, nervous and scraping a perfect little fingernail against the edge of the wooden table. 

“You’re brave.” 

“I’m brave?” Hiccup laughs, gripping his own knees to resist the urge to scoop the kid into his arms and hold on tight. “What makes you say that?” 

“You’re offering to keep a secret from my mom. My brothers don’t even do that.” 

“It can be our secret. I’ll tell anyone who asks that you gracefully ran through the whole hall,” Hiccup gestures to the crowd. “I’ll tell them all you flew over the crowd, that’s how graceful you were.” 

“Like a dragon?” Eret cocks his little head, edging half a step closer, eyes wide. “People can’t fly without dragons.” 

Hiccup smiles and reaches down for his flight suit unthinking, sliding his wrist through the loop and pulling one wing out. “I can.” 

Eret’s jaw drops. 

“Like you flap your arms and you fly?” He lights up, jumping up and down and waving his arms around, smacking one hand on the table and cradling it close to his chest. 

“Is your hand ok?” Hiccup rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the bony warmth. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. It happens,” Eret frowns, “can you really flap your arms and fly?” 

“Well, not—”

“Eret!” 

Even if Hiccup didn’t recognize Astrid’s jolt, he’d be able to guess from the way Eret flushes and squirms out from under his hand, turning around and shrinking under his mom’s furious gaze. 

“Sorry Mom—”

“Just get over here and let’s go home. It’s almost your bedtime anyway.” Astrid waves the boy over, glare landing on Hiccup. “Did the chief say anything to you?” 

“He can fly, Mom!” Even through his seemingly heartfelt contrition, Eret can’t contain his excitement, hopping again and flinging his arms out like wings. “He has wings in his pants and—”

“Hey,” Astrid kneels down, just close enough to tease him, his _family_ just out of reach and not quite out of ear shot. “You can’t listen to everything the chief says, alright?” 

“I know.” 

“Let’s get home.” Astrid stands with one more hostile glare at Hiccup, ruffling Eret’s hair and tugging him into her side. 


	8. Mourning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Fester. Eret III is about 8.

Of course the kids are with their grandmother today. Of course Eret is waiting at home, still patient. Astrid stops in the doorway of the forge, too late at night when it’s too cold outside, watching Hiccup’s shoulders hunch forward and heave. He’s crying. She shouldn’t be watching this. 

She almost turns to leave, almost makes it, but her fist rises to knock on the open doorframe. He whips around to look at her, swearing under his breath and wiping his eyes. 

“Astrid, I—”

“No, I—you’re—” She exhales and steps inside of the forge, thinking for a moment before shutting the door behind her. It’s instantly warmer, stiller, quieter and she wipes her hands on her skirt. He snorts like something is funny and she tries to remember his laugh. “Two weeks, huh?”

“Yeah,” he leans back forward, resting his head in his hands and she leans back against the work table, waiting for him to continue. “She…she died in her sleep. It was peaceful.” 

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Astrid scoffs, “she was still your mother, it still hurts.”

“Obviously.” 

“Hey, you don’t have to snap at me about it—”

“Astrid, why are you here?” He shoots over his shoulder, staring at the ground in front of him and rubbing his temples. 

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you home with Isa—never mind.” The name feels fundamentally wrong in her mouth and she scowls, staring again at the closed door. She should leave. She should leave now. 

“She mourns loudly.” 

“She’s upset?” Astrid asks slowly, eyes falling to the empty bench beside him. He looks skinnier and she hates that she notices it. She hasn’t been this close to him in years, since he and Eret got in that fight, and then she was pulling them apart. She doesn’t know why she’s here now. 

“They were very close.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Seriously, Astrid, what are you doing here? I don’t need your hostility right now.”

“You…you were there for me when my dad died,” she shrugs and takes a cautious step forward, along the wall, fiddling with a set of tongs resting on the counter. 

“Yeah, and you were there for me when my dad died. That was a different time.” 

“Chief…”

“If you’re going to call me chief, just leave.” He swallows hard, too loud in the quiet dark. 

She steps forward and hugs him, resting her cheek against his shoulders and wrapping her arms around the front of his chest. She releases a shuddering breath at the muted spark that nearly sizzles through his armor, “I’m sorry, Hiccup.”

“I…” he stiffens for a second before sighing and resting his hand on her arm, squeezing her wrist gently, bracingly. He sighs and she hugs him a little tighter, shifting and ignoring the impossible heat of the back of his neck against the side of her face. “Sit down? For a little while.” 

“I have to…” she stands and looks back at the door, her arms tingling where they just had him. In this backwards second, having him seems like a good thing, the best thing. She nods and walks around to sit on the bench next to him, “I have to be home soon.”

“How…how’s Eret?” He asks it slowly, carefully. 

“I assume you’re not asking about my husband.”

“Of course not.”

“He’s…I took him to the funeral. I thought—It felt right at the time. He’s…” She wipes a hand over her forehead and leans forward, trying to ignore the heat radiating between them. “Perfectly healthy. He’s healthy and smart and—I see you looking at him.”

“It’s impossible not to look at him. He’s perfect.” 

“He’s a handful,” she laughs, wiping her hands over her face. 

“My mother figured it out, not too long ago. She saw him with some terrors and…” he sniffs and looks towards the ceiling like he’s trying to hold back tears. “By Thor, I’m pathetic.” 

“You’re not—your mother just died,” she shifts towards him and thinks for a second before wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He sighs and slumps into the hug, leaning his head against hers and shuddering slightly, almost a sob. It’s a habit, more motherly than anything when she starts rubbing his back in a slow, wide circle, biting her lip and leaning her head against his shoulder. “You’re not pathetic.”

“I’m sort of pathetic.” He rolls his eyes and wipes his cheeks again and she hugs him a little more tightly. “More than sort of pathetic.” 

She sits up and glares at him, “most of the time I’d agree, but I think you get a pass.” 

“So generous of you,” he laughs, blinking wet eyes and slipping a shy arm around her waist. She freezes but doesn’t shove him off. “I’m…it looks like I’m getting all sorts of passes tonight.”

“Hic—chief,” she sits up and moves to push him off, but he tugs her back into him and kisses her, arm locked tight around her. 

It’s not…it’s not so bad. And that’s horrible, but after years of building her mistake into something greedy and wanton and embarrassing, the gentle kiss is a breath of fresh air. Sweet almost, definitely familiar and her hands fall halfway slack against his chest. His free hand cups her cheek and holds her there, thumb stroking across her face, shaking slightly. 

Wait. No. 

She comes to her senses and shoves him off, freeing herself her and lurching to her feet, accidentally knocking some rusty tongs to the ground with a clatter that breaks the spell. No, this isn’t happening again. 

“Chief!” She backpedals towards the door, wiping her mouth overdramatically on her sleeve.

“Don’t start with the chief nonsense again, Astrid,” he stands and faces her, pleading. 

“Now you’re pathetic. This is pathetic.” 

“Astrid—”

“No, I was never here,” she shakes her head and crosses the forge, whipping the door open and glancing back at him before petulantly staring at the floor. “I’m sorry about your mom, but—”

“But what?” And he’s so hopeful, so horribly, tragically hopeful. 

“But nothing.” She shuts the door behind her.


	9. Isabella leaving Aurelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Fester. Eret III is about 8.

Aurelia helps her mom fold clothes, like she does every week. Her mom sets the small bundles into a knapsack like she’s never done before, packing them carefully into the corners. 

“Why are you packing, Mommy?” Aurelia asks in her mother’s maiden tongue, cocking her head folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers worry at each other, twisting together, knuckles knocking against knuckles. 

“I’m going on a trip.”

“Is Daddy going with you?”

“No.” Her mother yanks the knapsack off of the bed and starts packing other things into it. An empty water skin. A bag full of coins. The thick, wool blanket from the foot of the bed. 

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” Her mother turns to her, glancing out the window and looking sad for the first time. She hugs Aurelia with one arm and kisses the top of her head, straightening her dress on her shoulders. “You’re going to be a good girl for your daddy, right? And you’re going to take care of your brother?” 

Aurelia nods dutifully, “you taught me how to do the laundry. I can keep Stoick’s diapers clean until you come back.” 

“That’s my girl,” her mom kisses her head again, stroking her thumb over her cheek. “Maybe you can come home someday too.” 

“I’m home today,” Aurelia cocks her head again, confused by the tears in her mother’s eyes, by her stern expression, like Aurelia broke something or was loud during Stoick’s nap.

“I love you, mi bella.” Her mother shakes her head, “I just…You’re too young. But your father…he’ll tell you someday. It won’t stay secret after I’m gone.” 

“You’re scaring me.” 

“Then be brave,” Her mother smooths her hair back from her face. “Be brave, my beautiful, brave girl.” 

Her Mom leaves. Her Mom doesn’t come back. 


	10. Dinner Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Fester. Eret III is about 8 or 9.

“She _left_?” Eret asks from the head of the table, his big hand tightening around the loaf of bread and crushing it. 

Astrid narrows her eyes at him, glancing at the kids because maybe this is a conversation they want to have later. “Can you pass the bread?” 

“The chief’s wife just _left_?” Eret passes the crushed loaf to Rolf, who cuts off a slice before handing it to his sister. Rolf glares at the table and Astrid wonders how much longer she can tolerate the sullen teenager explanation. 

“Apparently.” 

“For any reason that you know of?” Eret is trying so hard to be upbeat but he slips, a deadly lilt leaking into his tone. Astrid glances to her right, at little Eret, red hair glinting in the torchlight as he picks at his fish with freckled hands. 

“Why would Mom know anything about that?” Ingrid elbows Rolf in the ribs, snarling when he flashes her an obscene hand gesture under the table. 

“What about Aurelia?” Little Eret pipes up, squirming in his too big chair and looking up at Astrid wish flushed cheeks. “Her mom just left, she’s probably so sad.” 

“I bet she is, sweetie,” Astrid rubs his skinny shoulder and her husband shoots her a look. 

‘Don’t encourage him’ is the mantra, and it makes sense, she should work harder to keep Eret’s interest away from the chief’s family, but she can never bring herself to crush the kid like she probably should. 

“If I were married to the chief, I’d leave too, right Dad?” Arvid puffs his chest out and crosses his arms, too eager for his dad’s approval. 

Little Eret giggles, “why would you be married to the chief? Is there something you need to tell us?” 

Arvid hits him and Eret hits back, scrambling with the table until he’s caught in a headlock. And with that red head tucked into Arvid’s laughing side, it’s a flash of the path that never finished happening, her husband and the chief as friends. 

“Boys, not at the table.” Eret snaps, more irritable than normal, more effective. Arvid shoves his brother away and sits up straight, eating innocently while little Eret runs his hand through his hair in a way that makes Astrid’s chest throb. 

He looks more like Hiccup every day. A year ago, Arvid was starting to thicken up, childhood gangly limbs turning to muscle before her eyes, but Eret is longer than ever, all knobby knees and skinny, freckled arms. Last week he almost burned the forge down and it was déjà vu, his apologetic face sinking as Gobber chewed him out. Astrid half expected Stoick to appear from nowhere and start yelling. 

“What’s going to happen to the baby?” Little Eret asks, pushing food around his plate and picking at it. 

“What do you mean, hun?”

“He’s just a tiny baby, what’s he going to do without his mom?” 

“The chief will take care of him,” Astrid assures the boy, who scoots a few inches closer to her when Arvid isn’t looking. 

“Or the chief will slip him in with some other family,” Rolf grumbles under his breath, not quiet enough and Ingrid kicks him under the table, not secretive at all. 

“What the fuck—”

“Language,” Eret barks, but it’s not enough to slow their daughter down. 

“Are you talking about? Shut up. You’re an idiot.” 

“May I be excused?” Rolf is already standing when he asks, untouched dinner going cold on the table in front of him. 

Astrid struggles to keep her voice even, “no.” 

“Go ahead.” Her husband amends, his voice serious as he waves Rolf away from the table. “So the chief’s wife just woke up and left? For no reason.” 

Rolf slams the front door, Astrid narrows her eyes. 

“I don’t know the whole story.” 

“Oh?”

“I just heard from Ruffnut that she was gone.” 

“You heard it from Ruffnut?” Eret takes a bite of bread and thinks about it for a second. “When were you talking to Ruffnut?” 

“Is that really any of your business?” 

Ingrid’s knife scrapes loudly across her plate as she looks at her Mom, everything in that face saying later. Saying she’ll take Eret and Arvid on a ride, that she’ll play distraction. She’s been playing distraction a lot lately, ever since Valka’s funeral. Astrid sets her face into a placid smile and turns to her husband. “This morning. She wanted some help chopping firewood since Spitleaf has that broken arm.” 

“Ah.” 

“My new Thunderdrum followed us the whole way there!” Little Eret nods, his hand curling around Astrid’s arm like it always does when he’s nervous. “I think I want to call him Boom. Or Bang.” 

Astrid can’t bring herself to tell him that she recognizes the dragon. That it was around a long time ago, part of a destructive trio, back when weekly shenanigans seemed so normal. She pats his hand on her arm and holds his fingers against her, because someday he’s going to let go and she really doesn’t know if she can take it. 

“He’s not yours yet, son, you and Arvid aren’t supposed to get dragons until you finish winter lessons at the academy.” Eret is smiling in spite of himself, patting Arvid’s shoulder when the older boy gets miffed. No dragon has chosen him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. 

“He’s mine. He knows he’s mine.” 


	11. Helping Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Fester. Eret III is 9.

The kids are camping. Rolf is with Fishlegs, too old and too surly to be one of the kids. Astrid was supposed to be catching up on her sleep, flying with Stormfly, cleaning the house. She finds herself on Hiccup’s front step, even though she shouldn’t be, knocking on the door she shouldn’t knock on. Hiccup answers, a flurry of furs and a sobbing baby on his arm and Astrid reaches for the baby in spite of herself. 

“Here, let me hold him.” 

He looks at her like he’s going to say no, like he’s going to ask if she showed up on his front step to insult his parenting. He hands the baby to her with a tight lipped frown and holds the door open, inviting her wordlessly into his living room. It’s a mess, toys and important looking documents on every surface, a tiny fire crackling in the fireplace. His daughter is sitting in the corner, red cheeks smeared with angry tears as she holds a little doll tight to her chest. 

The baby screams, Astrid bounces him on her hip. 

“I came to see how you’re doing.” 

“Oh. Well,” he gestures to the room at large, grabbing a hunk of his hair and tugging. “You can start laughing now.” 

“It’s not funny,” she rests her hand on the baby’s tiny forehead and frowns. “I don’t think he has a fever, he might have just cried himself warm.” 

“He’s frustrated about something.” 

“I can see that,” Astrid sits down in a wooden rocking chair that looks new and starts rocking him, shushing and petting the back of little Stoick’s fuzzy head. “What happened Aurelia?” 

“My doll broke,” the little girl announces, springing to her feet and running across the room to set the doll on Astrid’s lap. She’s smaller than she should be, all Hiccup in those red-rimmed green eyes. 

“Why don’t you ask your daddy to fix it?” 

“Yes! Why didn’t you just tell me it was broken, sweetie? I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry,” Hiccup scoops the doll up, no nuance in the necessity of the brush of his hands over her thigh, and he stitches it back together with a length of thread on the crowded table. 

They don’t talk. Not really. Astrid calms Stoick and rocks him to sleep, trying not to fuss with the poorly tied knots on the sides of his diaper and Hiccup puts Aurelia to bed a little after sundown before depositing Stoick into his crib. He looks exhausted, gaunt lines of his face too fitting with the gray hair and he stares around at the impossibly cluttered room for a moment before crumpling into a chair at the table, head cradled in his hands. 

Astrid stands, rolling a document and tying it with a piece of twine she finds nearby. 

“I’ll get the fire going.” It’s an announcement more than conversation as he says nothing, only groans low in his throat and lays flat on the table. She kneels in front of the hearth and builds up the fire with the meager collection of firewood in the bin. 

“I don’t need your pity.” 

“It’s not pity,” she starts sorting, aimlessly piling toys on one side of the room and chiefly matters on the other, running her thumb over a gouge in a set of brightly painted blocks. She remembers them, they used to be in the corner of the mead hall for bored children, and she wonders why Hiccup doesn’t have new toys. “You’re in over your head.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” He glares at her, eyes shiny, “You think I woke up one morning and thought it would be _great fun_ to have two kids and a chiefdom and…and—I can’t do this.” 

His voice is so raw, so utterly open, reaching out for help she doesn’t know how to give anymore and her heart lurches. She used to know what to do when he needed her, at some point she stopped caring and she’s not sure how to start again. 

“You’re doing it.” 

“No, I’m not. Stoick was crying all day before you got here, my daughter won’t ask me to fix her doll, I haven’t slept in a week—”

“Take a nap. I’ll stay in case one of them wakes up.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” he smiles, a cruel smile she’s never felt the full force of before, “you shouldn’t do that. You’re happily married, right?” 

“I’m doing it for your kids.” 

“And why the Hel do you care about my kids?” He laughs, “My first kid, you claimed, I didn’t have a fucking choice in the matter, and now what? Do you just pity them having to put up with me as a father?” He fumes, slamming his hands on the table. 

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, “I don’t pity them. It’s not pity, it’s just…you’ve had a shitty few months.” 

“I’ve had a shitty decade, Ast.”

“Take a nap. My—Eret took the kids camping and Rolf is with Fishlegs and my house is too quiet. You’re doing me a favor, just take a nap.” 

“Oh, and you’re just going to stay awake alone and get all nostalgic?” He smiles and shakes his head, “look back on the years of having babies around like it’s a good thing.” 

“It is a good thing. Someday, Stoick won’t look at you without glaring,” she thinks of Rolf, his well-timed words. “Someday your kids might think they have to protect you.” 

Ingrid, the guard dragon, jumping to her defense at every turn. She doesn’t need defending, she’s not doing anything wrong. She’s just sitting in the chief’s living room. She’s cleaning. She’s a maid. 

When did she become a maid?

“Everything good on the homefront, Astrid?” And it’s a flash of the old Hiccup, the one she hated enough to leave, the one who wore his adventures like a badge, like they made him better. Toothless shifts on the roof, and Astrid wonders when the Night Fury started sleeping outside. Probably when the baby started crying non-stop. Toothless was always the smartest. 

“Teenagers.” She shrugs. He softens and she almost feels like she could touch him. 

“You should go.” 

“I should go.” 

“You don’t have to clean my house for me. That’s not your job.” The promise hangs in the air, the reminder that if she’d married him when she was twenty, it would be her house and her job and her kids. 

And Rolf and Ingrid and Arvid wouldn’t exist. 

“It’s not my job. It’s a favor.” 

“I don’t want your pity and I don’t want your charity,” he says it like a mantra and she wonders how many people have offered, how many people he’s turned down out of his own stubborn pride. 

“Take a nap, Hiccup.” 

“I’m not falling asleep and missing you, alright? I’m not missing out on any of this.” He stands and stares at her, absolutely defiant. He steps towards her and she shakes her head, looking around for something to clean, something to fuss with, anything to take her focus off of the way he’s looking at her. 

He crosses the room in three even steps, both older and more familiar up close, his hand shaking as it lands on her waist, curling in the fabric of her dress and brushing against her skin, hot and forbidden. She should leave. She needs to leave now. 

He kisses her, his free hand curling around the back of her neck and crushing her to him, his tongue slipping through her lips and tangling with hers. It’s everything she doesn’t have at home right now, the opposite of silence and chill. He groans, deep in his throat, and she feels it more than hears it, kissing him back and trying to remember if he tastes the same as he always used to. 

His hand slides down her back, fingernails rasping against the wool of her dress, his breath hot and wanting across her cheek as he pulls away just long enough to gasp her name. 

“Fuck,” she mutters, but she’s still kissing him, her hands at his sides on his ribs, dragging down his back. “No. We can’t. We can’t do this.” 

“Astrid,” he wraps his arms more tightly around her, pressing his forehead into the side of her neck and squeezing. “Astrid.” 

“You’re exhausted. You need to go to sleep, I need to go home.” 

His lips drag across her throat when he answers, “don’t go.”

“I need to go.” She squints her eyes shut and swears, leaning her ear against the top of his head and they fit like they used to. “I’ll come back, alright? I’ll come back. Not…you need help.” 

“I don’t want your help,” he growls, his arms clamping down around her waist with such conviction that she almost believes he could hold her there. “I want y—”

“You need to go to bed, Hiccup.” 

She almost offers to stay. She can almost tell herself it’s selfless, that she’s helping the chief and therefore the tribe. She pushes him off, hands firm on his shoulders and holding him at arms’ length. “Goodnight.” 

He doesn’t fight her this time when she walks out of the door. 


	12. Rebreak

She’s walking back from doing laundry, too tired with the basket balanced on her hip, ignoring the crowd as it dissipates around her and the path home is momentarily almost peaceful. Hiccup ruins it, jogging up beside her like he’s allowed, like this isn’t ridiculous and stupid. 

He smiles and tucks his helmet under his arm, reaching for her laundry basket like she can’t carry it herself. Like it’s not full of her family’s clothes. Her family that’s not his. 

“Hey. Hey, we’re…we’re alone,” he looks around one last time, doing a pivoting little spin on his bad foot and stumbling next to her like this is all ok, like it’s all normal. “I just wanted to thank you for coming over. And for helping me clean up, and if there’s ever anything you need, like babysitting or—”

“You’re not babysitting Eret.” She snaps before thinking, immediately sighing and shaking her head. “You have enough on your plate, you aren’t babysitting Eret.” 

“I know,” he says, even though he was clearly hopeful and she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. He’s staring at her like he’s allowed to, like this is all so wonderfully normal, like they do laundry together every wash day. “Just if there’s anything I can do…”

Her husband isn’t speaking to her, not really. There’s been a chill in the house ever since Isabella left, a sort of intermission, like Eret is expecting her to leave or stay or explode. Hiccup’s eyes feel too normal after all of that, and she tries to remember what it feels like when Eret looks at her, really looks at her. 

She almost asks Hiccup to kiss her, like it would help or clear her mind or remind her of that hazy line between right and wrong. It’s like she’s half on, drifting through issues she doesn’t know how to handle, and if he just touched her, she could decide. 

“I didn’t do it to earn a favor.” 

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” he scratches the back of his neck, and every twitch of those long arms draws her attention. She can’t look away, she can’t ignore him. “I just…I don’t know, it felt like a start of not being so awful to each other.” 

“My husband prefers when I’m awful to you.” 

“When did you start living based on someone else’s preferences?” It’s a joke, a tease, a smidge of their old rapport leaking into the awkward silence. It’s horribly right. 

She drops the basket and kisses him, fisting her hand in his collar and dragging him into her, their teeth clashing together hard enough to make her forget that they’re in public. He grabs her and there’s a second where he’s about to push her away, his hands stern enough against her waits to remind her that he’s mourning a marriage and he’s Hiccup and there are a million logical reasons why this doesn’t work, why it didn’t work the first time and it won’t work now. 

He leans into her, pressing her back against a thick tree bordering the trail, his hand trailing down to her hip and pulling her against him. And it’s like they’re teenagers again, stealing kisses in dark corners, always busy, always moving. She was never quite satisfied back then, there were always moments of longing, of lonely, scanning the horizon for a dot of black and red, that afternoon’s adventure. It’ll never be satisfying, but a small voice in the back of her head encourages her to get what she can, while she can. 

He nips her lower lip, leaning into her, warm and firm through the leather of his armor, and his hands are everywhere. He gropes at her sides, the waist of her skirt, her shoulders, and it’s like he’s trying to assure himself that she’s real. 

She remembers that fumbling first time, in a ripped tent in the rain on that rocky outcropping. There was a candle, he brought flowers, it was supposed to be romantic. He’s not fumbling now, he’s assured, a new kind of confidence that she barely got to experience before everything fell apart, and she _likes_ it. 

She likes the way he strokes her hip, his hand sliding under her dress, hooking around the back of her thigh and lifting her leg around his hip. He’s so close to her, he’s everything. His hair brushes her face as his lips dip to her neck, still soot and leather and scale polish, and her hands fist in his shirt. His hand slides further under her skirt, drifting towards her inner thigh and she gasps, hooking her ankle more tightly around his legs and arching against the rough bark of the tree. 

And his hand, that confident, sure hand, slips between her legs and presses so expertly against her, against heat she hadn’t yet noticed and there’s intent there. She can see this going further, see herself stumbling back to his house, ignoring laundry in the middle of the trail, ignoring her vows and her life for a chance at the fiery sparks of his fingers on her skin. 

His hand twitches against her, a purposeful, searching motion, accompanied by a delicious little nip on the side of her neck and she shoves him off, straightening her clothes and storming past him to pick up her basket. 

“What the Hel, Hiccup?” 

“I thought—you kissed me.” 

“I’m _married_ ,” she spits the word like a curse, stalking up the hill like he can’t follow her. He’s jogging beside her, lips kiss swollen and emphatic, and she glares at him. “I’m married, Hiccup. I’m sorry that you’re in over your head, but I’m married.” 

“Saying it doesn’t make it true.” 

“You made it true!” She snarls at him, “you made it true when you married me to Eret!” 

“Oh, so this is my fault? Of course it’s my fault, of course you’re going back 20 years to dredge up some shit—”

“I’m just answering your question.”

“I didn’t ask any questions!” He grabs her shoulders and kisses her again, too rough, sparkling electricity fizzling in her fingertips as his thumb digs into her cheek. She bites his lip and shoves him off again. “Astrid, wait, I shouldn’t have done that—”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I shouldn’t have.” He reaches for her and she shrugs him off, walking faster, guilt settling over everything else. This was so stupid, this was all so stupid. Someone else would have stepped in, she didn’t have to. “I was just—do you know why Isabella left?” 

“I can think of a few dozen reasons she might have left.” 

“She found out about Eret!” Hiccup pauses and shouts, too lout, and she half expects Toothless to come running in and play savior. “There was that fire at the forge and he was outside, staring at his feet and apologizing and she just—she _knew_.” 

“It’s obvious, Hiccup. It’s so obvious. I deal with it every day, you know, looking this _perfect_ little piece of you in the face and trying to forget everything that happened between us. He’s just like you in all the best ways,” she stops to exhale, “and I’m just stuck waiting for the worst to come out.” 

“Maybe…maybe we should tell him. It’s not going to be a secret forever, it just can’t—”

“Tell him what?” Astrid sneers, clamping down on the basket handles until wicker cracks under her fingers. 

“Tell him who is father is.” Like it’s so obvious, so easy. The issue with his own family is suddenly so crystal clear, the overwhelming expectation that everyone around him adapt and change at a speed Hiccup can barely manage himself. 

“My husband is his father, he is my son and—and you think you’re going to tell him, don’t you? You think you’re going to,” she gestures to the forest around them, the empty path, “you’re going to get him alone, aren’t you? You think you’re going to reveal some big secret and—”

“He’s my son too!” Hiccup bellows, the great chief of Berk for a miniscule moment before he fades back into the sad man Astrid never should have forgotten how to avoid. “He’s my son and I deserve a say in his life, I deserve an opinion—”

“Don’t ever talk to us again,” Astrid shakes her head, and she must sound deadly enough to scare him off because he pauses. “Don’t talk to us, don’t _watch_ us, don’t even…don’t even think about us.” 

He doesn’t follow her. She can’t help but feel lost without his uneven footsteps behind her. 


End file.
